My Juliet; 5 : 4

Poet knows not the hour of the night,

Nor why the world must bend, twist and contort;

His balance and perception isn't right,

He tries to stand, but keeps on falling short.

Weeping, Poet knows his end is nigh,

And prays forgiveness for his many sins. 

He bows his head and whispers soft, 'goodbye'--

-- and that is when the vomiting begins.

Heaving, doubled over on the floor, 

Terrified he'll die in agony;

It doesn't cease for hours; maybe more...

Until there's nothing left in him to see. 

When morning comes, it seems the purge is done,

But it'll be days before he sees the sun.

----

© Jackson Cambridge, 2015